Roads Not Traveled
by Syl
Summary: Dick Grayson encounters several personal setbacks and reaches an emotional crisis.


Summary: This story basically explores the question, "What if Dick were made of   
less sterner stuff?" Might things have turned out differently? Or is there   
something about him that just forces him to win? I don't know if I answer the   
question to my satisfaction as yet. This does not follow historical canon with   
100% accuracy. I left out important persons (Tim, for example) and events for   
expediency's sake--and invented others to fit my story. So there.:)  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC and Time/Warner; this is an original   
story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome.  
  
Copyright July 2000  
  
****  
  
Roads Not Traveled  
By Syl Francis  
  
****  
  
The pounding wouldn't go away.   
  
The sun felt warm against his cheek. He experienced a moment of panic. Another   
day. He couldn't face another day.  
  
The pounding continued unabated, but now, it was accompanied by angry shouts.  
  
"*Hey*! Wake up, Grayson!" He recognized the harsh voice of the building   
superintendent.  
  
Dick brought his hand up to his eyes, groaning as awareness came back to him.   
The place reeked of stale alcohol and vomit. A wave of nausea washed over him.   
He could taste bile in the back of his throat.  
  
"Open this door or I'll break it down!"  
  
Painfully opening his eyes against the morning's gritty reality, he managed to   
stand, slightly hunched over and made his way to the door.  
  
"All right, already," he muttered. "I'm coming." He jerked the door open and   
leaned against it. He was just sufficiently self-aware to realize that this was   
the only way he could remain on his feet.  
  
His head was throbbing, his eyes were on fire, his tongue was three times its   
normal size. He felt raw, filthy, and sick.   
  
Dick squinted at the fat, reddened face of his superintendent. The guy was a   
jerk, but Dick owed him three weeks back rent. He forced himself to be pleasant.  
  
"What can I do for you, Mr. Webb?" he croaked.  
  
Webb grabbed Dick by the lapels and drew him close. "Listen, punk! You owe me   
back rent--two hundred bucks! If I don't get my money by noon today, you're out   
on the street! You got money for booze--you got money for rent! You *got* that,   
punk?"  
  
Dick swallowed the angry retort, nodding ashamedly. "Got it," he whispered. Webb   
threw him away in disgust. Shaking his head, the superintendent left him   
standing by the door.  
  
Dick slammed it shut and leaning against it, slid down to the floor. A black   
despondency descended on him like a shroud. Head resting against the door, he   
broke down. The tears streamed unabated.  
  
Unbidden images flashed in his mind's eye...  
  
"You had no right to give him my name!" Nightwing shouted. "Robin's *my* name!   
My mother gave it to me!"  
  
"Robin is my partner's name," Batman growled. "You gave up the right to it when   
you left."  
  
"I left because you *fired* me!" Nightwing protested, shocked.  
  
"I fired you because you failed to obey orders. Maybe now I've found a partner   
who will."  
  
The words stung, cutting into him. In his bitterness, he uttered ugly words.   
Unforgivable words. Words that once said couldn't be unsaid.  
  
"I hope he *dies*!" The words rang throughout the Manor, bouncing back and   
forth, accusing, condemning.   
  
And then Jason died. Ironically, because he couldn't follow orders.  
  
Bruce demanded Dick return his key to the Manor. "You weren't there, Dick! Jay's   
dead and you never bothered to show at his funeral." Bruce glared coldly at him.   
"Don't bother coming back."   
  
"Bruce, I was off-planet! I didn't know!" Dick pleaded. He had to make Bruce   
understand that it wasn't his fault. He stood helplessly by as the ornate door   
slammed in his face forever.  
  
Dick's emotions were in a whirl of pain and betrayal, assaulted by memories that   
cut with knifelike sharpness...  
  
The wedding--his grasp at happiness.   
  
Little Lian getting underfoot. "Roy! Can't you control your kid?"   
  
Roy's angry retort, snatching up his little girl and leaving. Dick calling out   
to him. "Roy, I'm sorry. Please, don't go."  
  
And Bruce wasn't there.   
  
"I'm sorry, Master Dick, but Master Bruce has met with an unfortunate accident.   
I'm afraid that he will not be able to make it."  
  
"Please, Alfred. May I talk to him?" The raw emotion in his plea for carried   
across the miles that separated them. "Please?"   
  
There was a long pause at the other end. Dick assumed that Alfred was talking to   
Bruce. Soon, the faithful friend's dulcet English tones came back on the line,   
sounding regretful.  
  
"I'm sorry, young sir. But Master Bruce is currently...unavailable."  
  
The 'unfortunate accident' Dick found out later came in the form of Bane. But he   
didn't have time to worry then. His breath caught as he beheld his bride.  
  
Kory looking so beautiful. Reaching her hand out to him. Her look of horror as   
the minister exploded in a nightmare of gore.   
  
"*KORY*!!!" He screamed as he leaped to push her to safety. Too late. They were   
both knocked unconscious by the force of the explosion. When he woke, she was   
already gone. Off planet. Never to return.   
  
The blackness came down like a heavy, woolen blanket, suffocating him, sucking   
the life from him.  
  
The days of lonely wandering. Lost in the wasteland. His soul dying a bit more   
every day.  
  
The newspaper headlines proclaimed that Police Commissioner Gordon's daughter,   
Barbara had been shot by the Joker. She was currently clinging to life.   
Prognosis, poor.  
  
Dick fell on his knees when he read it, his body wracked by harsh sobs. Getting   
himself under some modicum of control, he flew to her side, entering her   
hospital room through a window.  
  
Seeing her lying there, surrounded by tubes and machines, the steady hissing   
sound of the ventilator indicating that she was being assisted in her breathing,   
accompanied by the beeping of the heart monitor, Dick thought he would die right   
there with her.  
  
Taking her hand gently in his, he knelt by her bed all night long, praying   
silently, pleading for her life. Offering his own in exchange. And she'd lived,   
but she'd never walk again. The vibrant, courageous girl who'd flown with him   
across the rooftops would never fly again.  
  
Unable to face her pain, he ran from her, hiding in Titans Tower, immersing   
himself in the job of leading the team.  
  
And then Titans--the one constant in his life--turned him out.  
  
"I'm sorry, Dick," Donna said with sweet understanding, her words stabbing with   
their icy warmth. "But we have to think of the team. You haven't been yourself   
since Kory left, and even since before that. You need time to rest and regroup.   
Roy--Arsenal--will take the reins until you're ready to return."  
  
He'd gone berserk. "No!" he yelled, going for Roy's throat. "That's all you've   
ever wanted. Since we were kids--to be the leader. You're all against me. You're   
just trying to get rid of me! Well, I won't be fired--not again! I quit! I   
*quit*!"  
  
He punched out Roy and even managed to connect with Wally's chin. Donna ran   
after him, even threw him against the wall, but he turned on her as he did the   
others. In the end, he left her in tears. His momentary triumph haunting his   
conscience.  
  
In his time of isolation, he sought the one man who'd been his lifeline in past   
times of need. But he was gone. Bruce had been replaced by another Batman, and   
Alfred had left the country.  
  
He'd now lost everything.  
  
Swallowing back the sobs that threatened, Dick stood slowly. He had all of $1.65   
in his pocket. Little chance he'd get the money for the rent by noon. He looked   
at old windup alarm clock. It was now 11:30 a.m.  
  
Time to hustle the noontime crowd. He played a semi-decent guitar and had been   
playing for coins on the streets of Gotham for about two weeks now. Kept him in   
rotgut whiskey money. For some reason, the lunch crowds were more generous than   
at other times of the day.  
  
If he wanted to get at least enough cash for a meal or a drink, he'd have to   
move. He walked into the bathroom and splashed water on himself. His hair was   
matted with filth. His face was lost in a four-day-old stubble. His eyes looked-  
-old.  
  
Dick stared at his reflection for what seemed an eternity. Slowly, he took his   
razor and stared at it for a long time. What if--?  
  
His eyes widened in shock. Suicide?  
  
No! He couldn't go there. He was a survivor. Whatever happened, happened.  
  
Dick began shaving off the unsightly beard. Glancing at the shower, he removed   
his filthy clothes and washed for the first time in a week.  
  
Stepping out, he felt cleansed, a renewed sense of hope.   
  
It was short-lived.  
  
Setting up in a busy intersection, Dick started playing, softly at first, then   
as he gathered his confidence, with a little more feeling. Most passersby smiled   
and tossed coins in his case. Some grimaced and looked away. Others looked right   
through him.  
  
Used to it by now, Dick played on.  
  
He could hear the sound of raucous laughter approaching. A large group of young   
men, little more than thugs--with their Mohawk haircuts, inordinate amount of   
body piercing, black leather, and denim were sauntering down the sidewalk. They   
were shoving passersby as they walked, jeering at the frightened shouts of   
protest.  
  
Dick saw that they were headed in his direction. Turning his back, he tried to   
ignore them, going about his business.  
  
"Hey, Razor! Lookit here! A panhandler."  
  
"Yeah, you're right, Joey," Razor said. "Let's see how much money he's got!"  
  
"I got a better idea," Joey replied. "Let's see how much money *we've* got!"  
  
The gang burst into loud laughter again. "Hey, you, the bum with the guitar!"   
Razor called. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you!"  
  
Dick felt someone grabbing his elbow. Without effort, he broke the contact and   
continued playing.  
  
"Hey, Bum! I said I was talkin' to you! It ain't polite to ignore me!" Razor was   
already standing in front of Dick. His gang members were on either side, pinning   
Dick in.   
  
"Didn't you hear me calling you?"  
  
"Look, I don't want any trouble," Dick began.  
  
"Joey, Kevin! Did you hear that? Bum says he don't want no trouble!"  
  
"Yeah, I heard, Razor. Too bad for him, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, Kevin, 'cause I *feel* like causing all kinds of trouble!"  
  
Without warning, Razor swung at Dick, going for his abdomen. To the thug's   
astonishment, his victim was no longer there. Quicker than the eye could follow,   
Dick spun and kicked out, taking out first Razor, then two of his friends.  
  
To the gang's astonishment, their buddies were lying unconscious on the street   
corner in less than an eyeblink. Enraged, they jumped him. Dick was able to get   
in a few powerful blows, but nearly twenty to one odds were too much even for   
him. Especially, since he hadn't had a decent meal in almost four weeks.  
  
He never saw the knife until he felt the searing agony shoot up from his back.  
  
In the next instant, Dick was lying on the pavement, getting his ribs caved in   
by several well-placed kicks. As he began to lose consciousness, he heard the   
sounds of sirens getting nearer.  
  
"No," he whispered. "Can't--" As darkness enveloped him, he finished the   
thought, 'Can't let him see me like this.'  
  
****  
  
He awoke to the eerily familiar hiss of a ventilator and beep of a heart   
monitor. Memories of his last visit to a hospital flooded him.  
  
"Babs?" he whispered.  
  
"I'm here, Boy Wonder."  
  
He felt a soft touch on his hand. He blinked his eyes open. Where was he? He   
turned his head, trying to focus on the blur before him. Finally, the beautiful   
features of Barbara Gordon gazed back at him.  
  
"What--?" he croaked.  
  
"Shhhhhh...Don't try to talk," she said. She wheeled over to the nightstand and   
poured him a glass of water. She held it to him while he drank.  
  
"What happened?" he asked.  
  
"You were beaten pretty badly and stabbed. The doctors had to remove your   
spleen." She held his hand tightly to her cheek. "We almost lost you!" she   
whispered, agonized.   
  
"Dick, why didn't you call me? How could you turn your back on us? Don't you   
know we love you? We'd've helped. Any way possible."  
  
"We?" he whispered. His heart leaping unexpectedly at the thought that maybe   
Bruce had forgiven him. His hope was dashed by her next words.  
  
"Dad and me. Oh, Dick, I don't know what's happened. But whatever it was, you   
should've known that you could come to me for help. We're friends aren't we?   
Family."  
  
Dick turned away.  
  
"I don't deserve your help. I don't deserve anyone's help. I wasn't there for   
you. I wasn't there for Jason. For Bruce. Or Kory. Even the Titans got rid of   
me. You should've let me die."   
  
A single tear rolled down from the corner of his eye to the pillow below.  
  
"I want to die, Babs," he whispered desperately. "Please, let me die."  
  
"*Dick Grayson*!" Barbara cried out. "I'm *ashamed* of you! Don't you *dare*   
talk like that! Oh, Dick, everything's going to be all right. You'll see. Dad's   
trying to contact Bruce--"  
  
At her words, Dick began to pull out his tubes without warning. Barbara was   
taken aback for a split second, but then immediately began to fight him.  
  
"*No*!" Dick shouted, a sound like a wounded animal. "Can't-let-him-*see*-me-  
like-this!"  
  
"*Dick*! Stop it!" Barbara cried, alarmed. "Nurse! I need help here! Nurse!"   
Barbara managed to pull the call cord and within seconds the attending nurse was   
hurrying in.  
  
"Help me!" Barbara yelled.  
  
****  
  
They were all seated in the hospital waiting room, with differing degrees of   
guilt on their faces. Barbara studied them from down the hallway for a moment,   
gauging their attitudes. Taking a deep breath, she began wheeling her chair   
towards them.  
  
"How is he?"  
  
A beautiful brunette rushed up to her. Barbara recognized her as Donna Troy, the   
civilian identity of Wonder Girl.  
  
The others stood as well, towering over her.  
  
"Did *he* come?" A redheaded young man with a chip on his shoulder had asked the   
question. Barbara surmised that this was Roy Harper. According to Dick, Wally   
West, the other redhead was much more easy-going and friendlier.  
  
"If by *'he'* you mean, Bruce Wayne, then the answer is 'no.' He's not here."  
  
Roy looked like he wanted to hit something. "I *knew* it! That sanctimonious   
bastard! He's turned his back on the kid. Just like Ollie did me!" He turned   
away, his back to them.  
  
"Hey, Roy," Wally said quietly, "we don't know what's going on there, so we   
can't judge. Miss, may we see him? We're his best friends--"  
  
"We're all the family he has--" Donna added.  
  
"Yeah, and it's *our* fault he's here!" Roy added.  
  
Barbara shook her head at this last.  
  
"No, it's not. Dick made his own his choices. We can't blame ourselves if the   
choices he made were self-destructive. All we can do now is be there for him."  
  
They all nodded at this.  
  
"Dick's currently on suicide watch--"  
  
"Great Hera!" Donna gasped. She turned to Wally, who hugged her to him   
instantly.  
  
"I'm afraid that he had to be placed under heavy sedation, and he had to be   
restrained."   
  
They others stared at her stunned. Barbara gave them Dick's condition as   
clinically as possible, but inside she knew she was slowly going to pieces.  
  
****  
  
"Bruce?" Dick called restlessly in his sleep. "Bruce?"  
  
He felt a dark presence engulf him. A warm, comforting darkness.  
  
"I'm here, chum," Bruce replied.  
  
Dick smiled, a feeling of happiness suffusing him. It passed in the next   
instant. The tears started again.  
  
"I'm sorry, Bruce. For the things I said. For Jay. For not being there."  
  
"I know you are, son," Bruce said quietly. "But you have nothing to be sorry   
for. I should be the one apologizing. For not being there for *you*!"  
  
Dick shook his head vehemently. His heart monitor jumped instantly. "No...It was   
all my fault. I wish I were dead, Bruce. I don't deserve to live."  
  
"Dick! Son, listen to me. That kind of talk is nonsense! As long as we're alive   
we have hope. But there's no hope left once we're gone. There's nothing left.   
Only the pain and suffering of those you left behind."  
  
"No," Dick whispered. "I should've been the one who died, not Jay. You were   
right to fire me. I didn't deserve to be Robin any more. Jay never got a real   
chance. It should've been me..."  
  
Bruce stood over the restively tossing young man. He didn't like the readings   
from the instruments. They were growing weaker with each passing moment. Dick   
was willing himself to die.  
  
Bruce had only recently started walking again. He'd been out of the country for   
several months now, trying to regain his strength and his ability to walk. It   
had been an uphill battle, one he'd almost given up on several occasions. But in   
the end, he'd prevailed.  
  
It seemed that now, he had to pass on the same desire to live to Dick. What   
could he say to the boy? He'd obviously hurt him so deeply, so thoroughly that   
Dick felt as if he were worthless.   
  
"You did an excellent job on him, Wayne," he muttered to himself. "You took a   
self-confident, athletic, courageous young man, and brought him to the brink of   
suicide. And all because of your wounded pride. Well, I hope you're proud of   
your handiwork."  
  
He stared at Dick. Tentatively, he walked towards the bedside and slowly knelt   
beside it, taking Dick's hand in his. Within moments, Bruce found himself   
praying silently, pleading for his son's life. Offering his own in return...  
  
****  
  
Dick stood at the brink of the abyss. He looked down into the bottomless   
blackness. Again, the darkness called to him, opening its arms invitingly. Just   
one step over the edge, and it would be over.   
  
All the pain. All the hurt. All the suffering.  
  
Gone in an instant.  
  
He thought of his parents' deaths. Gone, in an instant.  
  
He thought of Jason's murder. Gone--  
  
He thought of the priest's murder and Kory's deserting him. --in--  
  
He thought of the Joker shooting Barbara. --an--  
  
He thought of Bruce demanding his key back. --instant!  
  
He thought of taking that final step. Smiling, he lifted his foot, and stood   
poised, ready to walk into the pit.  
  
Somewhere above him, he could hear someone calling to him.   
  
"Dick!"   
  
He shook his head.   
  
"Dick!"  
  
The person was making him break concentration. He couldn't lose his focus. This   
was the most important part of the act. The Flying Graysons' last performance.   
He had to get it just right.  
  
"*Dick*! Please, son, I need you."  
  
Dick wavered, turning his head toward the sound of the vaguely familiar voice.   
No! He had to proceed--the Show must go on!  
  
Dick leaped gracefully into the maw of darkness. He instantly began his   
signature quadruple somersault. Dad would be waiting for him at the other end--  
like always. He smiled with confidence, counting the revolutions.  
  
One.  
  
"Please don't do this, son. Don't leave me."  
  
Two.  
  
Dad? Dick felt an instant's uncertainty and then smiled. I'm coming Dad!  
  
"I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm asking you...I'm begging you!"  
  
Three.  
  
Bruce? Please don't cry. You're not supposed to cry.  
  
"Please, come home! Please, son! Come home to me!"  
  
Four!   
  
Dick confidently reached out for the strong hands that were waiting for him.   
Like always.   
  
"Bruce?"  
  
****  
  
Bruce looked up. It had been the barest of whispers, the thinnest of sounds. Did   
he really hear it?  
  
"Bruce?" Dick's fingers weakly squeezed his.  
  
"Dick!" Bruce cried out softly. He pressed his forehead to Dick's hand. "Thank   
you. Oh, God...thank you."  
  
****  
  
"Are you sure, Bruce?" Dick asked. He stood next to the glass case enshrining   
Jason's Robin costume. Every time he saw it, he felt a stab of guilt. But at   
least now, it was tempered with the understanding that the only person   
responsible for Jay's death was the Joker.  
  
Bruce nodded, handing him the costume.  
  
"I've made a lot of mistakes this past year, Dick. But this is one mistake I'm   
not repeating. You were meant to wear this. Nothing could make me prouder than   
to know that you were guarding Gotham City in my absence. Will you wear it for   
me?"  
  
Dick reached for the costume, nodding. "I will, Bruce," he said. "But I'll be   
wearing it for me, as well. It's something that I need to do."  
  
"Go on, Boy Wonder," Barbara teased. "Put it on!" She was online, watching from   
her home. Dick waved and smiled at her. It was a new setup that she and Batman   
were experimenting with. Dick knew that the project was giving new meaning to   
Barbara's life.  
  
He walked into the uniform vault to try the fit. A few moments later, the Dark   
Knight emerged. He stood menacingly at the opening.  
  
"Looks good, former Boy Wonder," Barbara called. "I almost can't tell the   
difference."  
  
"She's right, Dick," Bruce said quietly. "It's a good fit on you."   
  
Dick looked up his former mentor and gave him a most un-Batlike ear-to-ear grin.   
  
"Don't do that in front of Dad," Barbara said, giggling. "He'll peg you as an   
imposter in an instant."  
  
"Good luck, Dick," Bruce said. "I know you'll make me proud." Bruce held his   
hand out. After a moment's hesitation, Dick smiled and took it in his.  
  
Father and son shook--two men on equal footing now, putting the past behind   
them, and looking towards the future.  
  
****  
  
The End  
####  
  
  
  



End file.
